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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065186">Fix This</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batfamily (DCU), Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Crying, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Cutting, Damian Wayne is Robin, Depression, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Tim Drake is Red Robin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:47:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,568</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065186</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The nauseating terror brought him right back to the early days, when this was new and freshly gruesome each time. For a moment, sitting on the bathroom floor with blood dripping out of him, Dick was a kid again. Just a little thirteen year old kid, staring at himself in the mirror, appalled at himself and what he'd just done.</p><p>---</p><p>Dick has been battling self-harm since he was a kid. But his family loves him, and they'll do anything to make him feel better.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Damian Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fix This</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WARNING! Graphic depictions of self-harm throughout pretty much this entire thing.</p><p>IF READING THIS WILL TRIGGER YOU PLEASE DON'T READ!</p><p>Seriously. I really, really don't want anyone to get hurt. You all need to take care of yourselves and treat yourselves right! This fic is literally not good enough to warrant anyone getting hurt. I'm serious. Please take this warning seriously.</p><p>That said though, everyone is welcome here. I've seen some authors post tags about certain tropes or things, saying like "if you're into [x], get out right now" and that just makes me so angry. Like, this is fan fiction. Everybody is welcome to read my fan fiction. Seriously. There's no need to take grudges like that so seriously.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The <em>habit</em> started when Dick was Robin, but even at thirteen, it wasn't an accident. It was entirely on purpose.</p><p>Dick had heard about it online, of course—it wasn't possible to be on Tumblr and <em>not </em>hear about it. He had seen a few posts, a few images, and though at first he had written them off, he found his mind wandering back to them with startling frequency.</p><p>Self-harm.</p><p>
  <em>Cutting.</em>
</p><p>At first he was horrified. Who would do that to themself? More importantly, <em>why?</em></p><p>Dick was inquisitive--and filled with an unrelenting, morbid curiosity. Even though his stomach churned squeamishly at the very thought, and he had to squeeze his eyes tightly shut to get the images out of his mind, he couldn't stop thinking about it.</p><p>So in his room in the manor, thirteen years old, Dick found out the answer to his first question.</p><p>
  <em>Who would hurt themself on purpose? </em>
</p><p>Well, Dick would.</p><p>
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p>...he didn't know.</p><p>---</p><p>The funny part is that nobody ever found out. It's not like scars and cuts were uncommon on a kid whose every night was dedicated to violence and risk-taking, and Dick was smart. He never cut too much in one place. He never cut too often. He <em>never </em>dropped any hints.</p><p>It was under control. Dick had everything under control.</p><p>Until he became Nightwing and left to live on his own in Bludhaven, and <em>nothing </em>was under control anymore. </p><p>But.</p><p>This was a long-perfected science. An art, and Dick was both the painter and the canvas. This was a lifestyle, a religion--</p><p>This was everything.</p><p>---</p><p>"Master Bruce and Master Damian have requested your presence at the manor tonight for movies before patrol."</p><p>Dick lifted an eyebrow even though he knew Alfred couldn't see it through the phone, and said doubtfully, "<em>Bruce </em>said he wanted me to come watch movies with him?" Somehow, the concept was a little hard to believe.</p><p>A pause. "Not in so many words, no."</p><p>"Aha," Dick said dryly. Caught.</p><p>"But he does want you there," Alfred amended. "He only agreed to it because Damian wanted to invite you."</p><p>Dick glanced out the window, and much to his relief, he could see tiny snowflakes drifting down outside. Before long, the snow would coat the ground in a heavy white blanket. "Wish I could, Alfie," he lied easily. "But it looks like it's starting to snow."</p><p>"Which means you had better leave soon if you want to arrive before the roads are too dangerous," Alfred agreed.</p><p>"Alfred," Dick groaned, leaning back. He was sitting on the ratty old couch in his apartment, where he had been reviewing case files. He threw his head against the back of the couch, fully aware of how dramatic he was being but feeling righteously irritated nonetheless.</p><p>"I expect to see you soon." With a click, Alfred ended the call.</p><p>Dick groaned again, and though it was for the sake of theatricality, in all honesty he really was dreading the occasion. Though his relationship with Bruce was currently as good as it had ever been (at least since he had been kicked out on his ass at age seventeen--and okay, maybe he was still bitter about that, and maybe he always would be) Dick wasn't really <em>feeling </em>the whole socializing thing tonight. He had wanted to watch some TV, drink some hot chocolate, maybe have a hot date with his razorblades--</p><p>And now he was going to the manor. Fun. </p><p>Resigned, Dick threw on his favorite blue jacket and a pair of boots. He supposed there was no getting out of it.</p><p>The fabric rubbed against the cuts and stung. Dick felt better. </p><p>---</p><p>When he arrived at the Manor, Damian had already set up the living room for the optimal movie-watching experience. That was the thing about Damian. Initially he would insist he didn't want a movie night--that it was too childish, he had better things to be doing, there was nothing appropriately intellectual on Netflix—any excuse under the sun. But once he was convinced, he would go out of his way to guarantee the experience was the number one best movie night of all time. That was just how he did things. Go big or go home. </p><p>So the movies were all queued up on Netflix, the snack bowls were arranged on the table (with room specifically set aside for Bruce to put his feet up, as he always did even despite Alfred's horrified protests) and the pillows were strewn comfortably on the couch with enough throw blankets for each of them to open up a blanket store.</p><p>Damian had already taken his spot, and even swaddled up in a fuzzy zebra-striped blanket, his arms were crossed in obvious annoyance. "You're late," he snapped.</p><p>Dick checked his watch. "Alfred never said what time to be here," he said, confused. </p><p>"Everybody knows the optimal time to start movie night is seven PM sharp," Damian informed him, nose raised superiorly in the air.</p><p>"That's news to me," Dick said with a shrug. Then he looked at the perfectly arranged couch and tilted his head. "Which spot's mine?" he asked. The last thing he wanted to do was disrupt the arrangement which Damian had clearly spent a lot of time on. Damian would probably dismember him. </p><p>"The one next to mine," Damian said, and pointed. Dick took the offered seat and made himself comfortable snuggling up under two blankets, propped up by pillows and the shoulder of a reluctant Damian--Damian pretended to hate Dick's penchant for physical affection, but Dick suspected he was secretly fine with it, or he wouldn't have assigned Dick the spot right beside him. It took a little bit of wiggling to find a position that didn't irritate any of his cuts--it was annoying, kind of painful, and made something inside Dick glow with sick satisfaction.</p><p>Finally, Bruce strode in, looking and acting way too formal for a family movie night.</p><p>Clearly, he was familiar with the routine. "Where's my spot?" he asked.</p><p>Damian pointed and Bruce sat down stiffly, although they all knew that in less than twenty minutes his feet would be up on the coffee table and he'll have relaxed, at least as much as he ever permitted himself to.</p><p>Sure enough, fifteen minutes into the first movie, Bruce propped up one foot, then the other, and laid back against the couch with his arms spread out on top. Damian rolled his eyes at the sight.</p><p>Dick sighed and nuzzled into his brother's arm. He hadn't been feeling very well lately. His cuts prickled with every movement, but beyond that, his stomach rolled with anxiety--<em>what if they find out?--</em>and guilt. It was an ugly combination.</p><p>An ugly combination. How would Dick hold himself together without it?</p><p>He probably wouldn't.</p><p>Because this was a years-old routine, an integral pillar that held Dick up, and even as it hurt, it was so familiar that he didn’t know how he could ever let go of it. It was an old friend. A skeleton in his closet, and it was one he <em>loved </em>bittersweetly. <br/>
<br/>
It has been there for years, and it would never get old.</p><p>Damian noticed Dick’s weariness--he noticed just about everything--but said nothing. He even leaned into Dick's embrace a little by pretending he needed a better view of the screen. It was sweet. Dick once again found his heart overwhelmed with love for his little brother.</p><p>
  <em>What if Damian finds out?</em>
</p><p>The thought was chilling. It occurred to him every so often and never failed to make him freeze with horror. </p><p>He would do anything to stop that from happening. Dick was a role model to his siblings. He lived an intense life, and had done countless things he regretted, things he would never wish upon any of his brothers.</p><p>But if one of them ever took up <em>this</em>particular habit—</p><p>Dick would never forgive himself. He’d rather die. He probably <em>would</em> die. </p><p>"Hand me another blanket," Dick asked Bruce, too comfortable to get up and grab one for himself. "It's cold."</p><p>True enough, despite the manor's expensive heating system, it was still chilly. It was mid-December, and a glance out the window confirmed that the snow had picked up.</p><p>Obligingly, Bruce grabbed a blanket, and in a rare moment of playfulness, threw it at Dick. It hit him square in the face. He squawked, and Damian defended him by taking an extra pillow and launching it back at Bruce.</p><p>It was moments like these that made his heart ache.</p><p>Because <em>nothing was wrong. </em></p><p>Everything was going well. He loved his family, and they loved him, and movie night in the manor was wholesome and warm despite the snow swirling down outside. So why did Dick want to slip away, head to his room upstairs, and put a knife to his wrist? <em>Why couldn't he be happy?</em></p><p><em>Why am I like this, </em>he wondered absently. The query was not new.</p><p>He curled up tightly under his extra blanket and stared at the television screen, lost in thought. He didn't really absorb most of the movie, but he was too comfortable nestled up next to Damian to move, and too lazy to, at that. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to think. He just stared at the screen until it blurred, and kept on staring long after that.</p><p>Dick ended up dozing against Damian, and missed most of the movie. Every now and then he awoke groggily, startled by some loud noise from the speakers, but for the most part, he rested, and his family let him.</p><p>Halfway through the second movie, Alfred came in bearing mugs of hot tea and set one down beside each of them, tutting angrily at Bruce's raised feet. Dick stirred awake enough to thank Alfred, who primly patted his shoulder in acknowledgement. "Of course, dear boy."</p><p>Dick raised his arm to check his watch, and grimaced. "I should probably go," he said, glancing apologetically at Damian. "Bludhaven isn't gonna patrol itself."</p><p>Alfred shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Master Dick," he said with a look out the window. "It's snowing too hard for you to go anywhere."</p><p>”What a shame,” said Bruce. Damian shook his head as if to helplessly say, <em>what a pickle. </em><br/>
<br/>
“You guys planned this!” Dick accused, sitting up.</p><p>”Well.” Bruce had no explanation to offer, so Alfred was forced to pick up the slack.</p><p>”We haven’t seen enough of you lately, Master Dick. Why not stay here for a day or two? I’m sure Master Damian and Master Timothy will be pleased to have you.”</p><p>And although Dick was still pissed off, the little brother card never failed to persuade him. So Dick scowled, angry but convinced nonetheless, and stood up. “Guess I’ll go prepare my room, then.”</p><p>”There are fresh linens on the bed,” Alfred said helpfully.</p><p>Dick left the room without another word.</p><p>——</p><p>In his room, Dick made a beeline to the bathroom and opened up the cabinet beneath the sink. Inside, where he had always left it, was a scalpel. <br/>
<br/>
Dick extracted it from the kit with the ease of years of practice. He was almost too relaxed—in his carelessness, the blade slipped from his fingers and cut one on the way down. Red dots of blood slowly welled up. He stared at them, fascinated.</p><p>Until those bored him, and he made more on his thigh. Fat drops of blood rose up and joined one another on the scarred skin, dripping down sluggishly to the bathroom floor in vibrant little splatters. Dick watched them go, and when they were done, made more. And so on. And so forth. This would never get old.</p><p>There was a knocking at the door.</p><p>”Grayson!” Damian demanded, pounding on the door with an angry fist. “You have been in there long enough. There is something I must show you.”</p><p>Dick’s voice was steady and casual as he called back, “Give me a minute. Then you can show me your thing.”</p><p>Damian harrumphed, managing to channel a hundred angry old men in the single sound. Then, Dick heard his footsteps receding as he strode out of the room.</p><p>Alone once more, Dick stared. At the bright red drops decorating his thigh, and the scalpel in his hand, smeared with slick, slowly drying blood. And his own hand. He had done this.</p><p>Suddenly, a wave of fury filled Dick’s chest. How dare he. How dare he act this way, perpetuate these selfish behaviors, when the child he loved was looking up to him. Was standing right outside that locked door.</p><p>Dick gripped the scalpel. He pulled the blade out of the handle, then took the little razor and threw it into the toilet. He flushed, and it was gone forever.</p><p>Dick cleaned up the rest of the disgusting mess and found Damian. Alfred had showed him how to bake apple cobbler, and as it was an important life skill that all vigilantes should possess, Damian was going to teach Dick.</p><p>—-</p><p>But there was the thing. Dick couldn’t just—quit, just like that.</p><p>Well, he could. Technically, he could quit anytime he wanted to.</p><p>And in good moments, he did want to. He looked at Damian and everything he wanted him to grow up to become, and everything Dick wanted to teach him. For Damian, Dick could be better. He had to.</p><p>For himself, Dick could not force himself to care. He just couldn’t. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>And cutting was not just the punishment—it was the behavior and the consequence in equal parts. It was what was tearing him apart bit by bit, and the only glue holding him together after all these years. It was the good and the bad, the black and the white and every single thing in between. It was everything. Everything.</p><p>For Damian, Dick wanted to stop.</p><p>But if he had enough willpower, he would have done it by now. He would have done it a long time ago.</p><p>—-</p><p>Two days went by, and instead of melting as Dick had hoped, the snow piled up even thicker atop the roads. Alfred absolutely put his foot down against Dick driving home—all day on the news they’d seen reports of gruesome car accidents caused by the icy roads.</p><p>So Dick stayed, and for two days, he didn’t cut. His resolve was fortified by Tim’s arrival, and with Damian’s reluctant compliance, the three brothers spent a lot of time together over the snowy weekend. Tim’s workaholic tendencies had been slowed by the onslaught of snow, so he let Dick force him into sparring practice in the cave, cooking lessons with Damian and Alfred, and more movies than Dick even knew existed on Netflix. <br/>
<br/>
And it was nice. It was really, really nice.</p><p>Which was why the persistent voice in his head urging him to bust out the razor blade was becoming very confusing. And irritating.<br/>
<br/>
It began almost as soon as Dick flushed the first blade, but his new resolution was strong in his mind, so he resisted. Day one was a challenge, but altogether, doable. Day two was harder. His newer cuts had begun to scab over, and his skin looked—<em>wrong—</em>in the absence of fresh ones. </p><p>He broke that night. Which was pitiful. Dick couldn’t even go two days without slicing himself open.</p><p>But the self hatred was a problem for another day.</p><p>It was two in the morning, and Dick absolutely could not last a second longer or he was going to itch right out of his skin. Out of routine, he cracked open his first aid kit—</p><p>—only to find the scalpel devoid of it’s blade.</p><p>Dick’s heart beat faster and he felt his chest clench with anxiety. He took a very deliberate breath out and forced himself to remain calm.</p><p>Everything would be okay. The manor was full of first aid kits. It was the Batman’s bachelor pad, for fucks sake. It was practically a first aid kit factory.</p><p>But as Dick crept out of his room and into the hallway, he ran into Tim, striding past cheerfully.</p><p>”Hey, Dick,” he greeted. “I’m going to try and hot wire the batmobile. Want to help?”</p><p>Dick laughed. Any other day he’d be delighted by the idea of Tim trying to hot wire the bat mobile at two in the morning. “There is nothing I’d love more in the universe than to help you hot wire the batmobile,” he told Tim very seriously. “But I’m busy doing some casework for something in Bludhaven. Another time?”</p><p>”Lame,” Tim accused like he wasn’t the king of casework. He pointed two finger guns at Dick as he continued past. “Later, bro.”</p><p>”Later, Timbo,” Dick agreed, and promptly stepped backwards into his own room. <br/>
<br/>
No way was he going to pilfer blades from other rooms in the manor when one of his little brothers could be lurking around any corner. No way, no how. What had he even been thinking? He would have to find something within his own room.</p><p>But that left his options significantly limited. Dick scoured the bathroom first, his heart beginning to pound when his search turned up nothing usable. His shaving razors were back in Bludhaven. He had no sharp weapons in his room—only Nightwing’s signature escrima sticks. There was nothing he could use. Nothing.</p><p>He breathed in and out rapidly, trying to stave off the impending panic. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Oh god. He wasn’t ready for this.</p><p>Atop his dresser, which he had not yet searched, there were framed photos. Some of him with his family, others of just his family and friends—and one of Bludhaven, neon signs glowing radiantly against a starlit sky. It had looked weirdly beautiful that night—perched atop a rooftop, Dick had not been able to resist snapping a picture of his home.</p><p>Now he grabbed the frame, put it gently on the floor, and brought his foot down on top of it. The glass in the picture frame shattered into a thousand little pieces.</p><p>Dick’s breathing eased, and his panic began to recede. He picked up a little glass shard.</p><p>Everything was going to be okay.</p><p>—-</p><p>But after he cut, he didn’t feel better like he expected to. He just felt—empty. Bled dry, and all out of feelings to feel.</p><p>So he put his sweatpants back on and headed down the hall to Tim’s room. He knew his little brother would still be awake. <br/>
<br/>
And he was, sitting in front of his computer, typing something rapidly.</p><p>Dick opened the door slightly, peeked in to make sure nothing was happening inside that would permanently traumatize him, and let himself in the rest of the way when he had affirmed it was safe.<br/>
<br/>
Tim looked over to him and grinned. “Hey, Dick,” he said, before turning back to his computer.</p><p>”Hi, little bro,” Dick said, flinging himself onto the bed without invitation. Tim wouldn’t mind. “You hot wire the bat mobile yet?”</p><p>”Nah,” Tim admitted. “Wouldn’t be as much fun without you there.”</p><p>Oddly touched, Dick smiles. “And it’s, like, three A.M. Not the optimal hot wiring time.”</p><p>Tim scoffed. “I’m like, literally nocturnal. Three A.M. is my prime time. I’m just getting started.” For Dick’s benefit, Tim clicked a remote to turn on the TV. “I’m getting some work done. But you can feel free to stay here if you want.”</p><p>”Thanks, li’l bro,” Dick said with a yawn. He laid his head down on a pillow and, eyes lazily half closed, watched the TV. It was a cooking show. <br/>
<br/>
Tim turned back to his computer, but hesitated, and looked back at Dick with sharp eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked. </p><p>“What?” Dick said, caught off guard. “Yes, of course. Why?”</p><p>Tim tilted his head thoughtfully, and Dick suddenly regretted that he lived with the two best detectives in the world. “You’re going really hard on brotherly bonding lately. More than usual, that is. But when you’re not with me or Damian, you seem... sad, or something.”</p><p>”I’m not,” Dick said, but it came out sounding hesitant, like a question. An offer. <br/>
<br/>
“Then what are you?” Tim pressed, leaning forward. </p><p>Dick opened his mouth, suddenly at a loss for words.<em> I’m hurting myself. I don’t ever feel well anymore. I don’t know what to do. I think I’m trapped and I don’t know how to get out and I’m panicking all the time.</em></p><p>
  <em>I’m hurting myself.</em>
</p><p><em>I’m hurting myself.<br/>
<br/>
</em>”I’m fine,” Dick promised with a dry mouth.</p><p>Tim turned away with a hurt expression. Dick... didn’t know what to do. So he did nothing. He stared at the TV and absorbed exactly none of the plot, and he dozed, and time passed on and on and on.</p><p>—-</p><p>Whatever suspicions Tim had, Dick knew he had shared them with Damian at least when his youngest brother offered a hug unprompted the next morning.</p><p>”What’s this about, Li’l D?” Dick asked, breathless with surprise and the weight of his little brother’s arms around him.</p><p>”Do not question my motives,” Damian commanded, still not letting go. “You love hugs, correct?”</p><p>”Yes?” Dick replied, confused.</p><p>”Well if you keep asking questions, you won’t get any more.”</p><p>Dick accepted the hug and returned it forcefully. “Love you, Dami,” he mumbled.</p><p>”That will also lose you hug privileges.”</p><p>—-</p><p>Dick felt like the absolute scum of the earth when he swiped one of Damian’s throwing knives. He hated himself. He couldn’t believe he had stooped this low.<br/>
<br/>
He hated himself, and did it anyway. </p><p>Throwing away the scalpel had limited his options significantly when it came to cutting. Because he had to throw away the broken picture frame, and it would look suspicious if more of them spontaneously broke—so he stole Damian’s throwing knife and sharpened it and brought it to his room.</p><p>He had tried to resist. He and Damian had been sparring in the bat cave, and the knife sat on a shelf, gleaming temptingly. For hours Dick had stared at it, longing. Hours.</p><p>Damian excused himself for a bathroom break, and Dick didn’t take the knife. For a minute he was proud.</p><p>But when they were done sparring and Damian went back upstairs?</p><p>Dick couldn’t help it anymore.</p><p>His heart was thumping painfully with anxiety, welling up in his tight, constricted chest. Sweat beaded up on his forehead. He couldn’t breathe right. </p><p>He needed that knife. He needed it. And he knew what he needed to do with it.</p><p>He took it up to his room and put it to his thigh the same way he would his scalpel, and pressed down. <br/>
<br/>
Dick sighed. The panic receded. Everything was going to be okay. </p><p>When he looked down at his leg, however, he saw that things were very different than usual. Damian’s knife was much larger than Dick’s scalpel. Much sharper, too. </p><p>The cut in his leg would more accurately be called a slash.</p><p>It was sickening. His stomach churned in horror.</p><p>And the nauseating terror brought him right back to the early days, when this was new and freshly gruesome each time. For a moment, sitting on the bathroom floor with blood dripping out of him, Dick was a kid again. Just a little thirteen year old kid, staring at himself in the mirror, appalled at himself.<em> What the hell have you just done?</em></p><p>What the hell had he just done?</p><p>He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. But he wanted to.</p><p>So he brought the knife down again.</p><p>And again.</p><p>And again.</p><p>He wasn’t a man, he was a kid, he was just a little kid with bloody red hands and no control over anything at all. He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what to do.</p><p>And his skin glistened as it bled—</p><p>And his eyes glistened as the tears built up—</p><p>And the knife tip glistened accusingly in his scarlet hand.</p><p>Oh god. <br/>
<br/>
He didn’t know what to <em>do</em>. He never knew what to <em>do</em> anymore.</p><p>He just didn’t know what to do.</p><p>A tear slid slowly down his cheek and he swiped it away angrily, but that left a bright red smear on his face, and he hated it so, so much. He wanted to be clean again. He wanted to feel okay.</p><p>He wanted his dad.</p><p>Instead he grabbed an old T-shirt to staunch the bleeding. He grabbed a comfortable pair of pajama bottoms. He took deep breaths to calm down.</p><p>He hid the knife in a dresser drawer.</p><p>And he slunk down the hall dark to Damian’s room.</p><p>It was the middle of the night, and they weren’t patrolling because of the weather conditions, so Damian was wrapped up snugly in his comforter, asleep.</p><p>Breathing deliberately so as not to betray a single hitch or sniffle, Dick slid in beside his brother.</p><p>”Grayson?” Damian accused, roused awake by the rustling of the bedsheets beside him. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>”Can I stay here?” Dick breathed out quietly.</p><p>Damian was silent for a moment.</p><p>”Please,” Dick said quietly. He didn’t know what he’d do if Damian said no.</p><p>“Fine,” Damian agreed grudgingly. Dick exhaled in infinite relief, and closed his teary eyes. </p><p>—-</p><p>Dick woke to someone shaking him vigorously. “What,” he mumbled groggily. The shaking ceased.</p><p>”Grayson!” Damian snapped, sounding as pissed as Dick had ever heard him. “You’re bleeding.”</p><p>Dick felt his heart stop. He froze for a moment. God. He was too tired to deal with this. “No, I’m not,” he attempted, and buried his face back into a pillow.</p><p>”You are,” Damian snapped, shoving Dick out of his comfortable position amongst the pillows and blankets. “Look.”</p><p>Sure enough, when Dick looked down, the gray fabric of his sweatpants was saturated with crimson blood. “Oh,” he said intelligently. He was aware of every beat of his heart as he worked out how to get out of this situation. “So I am. Thanks for noticing.” Dick slid out of the bed, injecting fake morning cheer into the way he stretched and yawned. “I guess I’ll go take care of that, then.”</p><p>Damian hopped out after him and trailed after him like an inquisitive puppy. “What happened?” he demanded. “I did not think you went on patrol last night.”</p><p>“Uh,” Dick replied. He wasn’t sure how to respond. If he lied and said he did go on patrol, all it would take was Bruce or Tim’s word to disprove his claim. If he made up some other excuse, like an accidental tumble down two flights of stairs and out a window, Damian might not believe him.</p><p>Dick settled for neither. “Look, I gotta take care of this,” he said, heading for his room. “I’ll explain after, okay?”</p><p>Damian crossed his arms and scrunched his nose. “I could help,” he offered.</p><p>”I’m sure you could,” Dick agreed. “But not this time.”</p><p>And he closed the door in Damian’s face.</p><p>Once the door was safely shut and Dick was alone, the panic returned, and try as he might, Dick couldn’t stave it off. His breaths quickened and his chest felt painfully tight. Fresh tears welled up. Oh god.</p><p>He was losing control. Everything was out of control. <br/>
<br/>
He was losing control, but had he ever really had it to begin with?</p><p>Dick rolled up his pant leg, and the blood made the fabric stick painfully to the cuts. He ripped it off savagely anyways and grit his teeth against the pain.<br/>
<br/>
Cuts exposed, Dick began to pace. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix this.</p><p>But for now—</p><p>—for now he could slap a bandaid over it.</p><p>Yeah, he knew what would help.</p><p>Like a ghost, Dick’s steps took him unconsciously over to the dresser. He rifled through the top drawer, hardly even aware of his own actions. His fingers closed over the handle of the sleek, sharp knife.</p><p>He sat down in the corner made by the wall and his bed. He cut again. </p><p>And it wasn’t <em>working</em>.</p><p>Usually, when he cut, the panic went away. It made him feel okay again. Took him back to baseline after his emotions had spiraled out of control.</p><p>But this time, the panic only built, and he choked back a despairing, desperate sob as he dug the knife in again and again, deeper and deeper, willing it to just fucking <em>work</em>.</p><p>God. Why wasn’t it <em>working?</em></p><p>He gasped in breath after helpless breath, each one sounding more and more like a sob as the wave of swirling emotion built. Everything was out of control. And—as he slashed in with the knife as deep as he dared—he realized.</p><p>He couldn’t fix this.</p><p>He was not going to be able to fix this.</p><p>Dick threw the knife across the room, where it hit the wall and clattered to the ground. He choked on a heaving sob. He wanted Bruce. He wanted help.</p><p>But he couldn’t get up. Physically, he probably could. But the panic and pain and desperation and despair was rooting him to the floor where he sat, and he couldn’t make himself stand. He just wanted to stay right here, on the ground, and just fucking die. He didn’t want to deal with any of this anymore.</p><p>A knock sounded at the door with a worried call of his name. “Dick?”</p><p>It was Bruce. Dick hyperventilated, gasping in breath after agonized breath. He was trying to calm down enough to respond to his father, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t calm down. “Dick?” Bruce repeated, sharper. Worried. “What’s going on?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Dick gasped out, trying and failing to make his voice sound normal.</p><p>”Let me in,” Bruce ordered.</p><p>”No!” Dick commanded sharply. “Nuh—no, do-don’t come in here! Don’t! Bruce I swear to God, I swear to God don’t fucking come in, you can’t!” His voice rose in terror. It didn’t work.</p><p>The door clicked open.</p><p>Bruce stared at him and gasped. Caught off guard for once in his whole goddamn life. “Dick,” he said as he rushed over to his son. “Dick, chum, what happened?”</p><p>Dick was crying too hard to respond. And even if he wasn’t, he didn’t know what he would say. <br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“What happened?” Bruce repeated, aghast. “Did you go on patrol?”</p><p>”Nuh—no, no,” Dick managed to gasp out through his tears. He leaned his head back against the wall to stare at the ceiling as opposed to Bruce.</p><p>Bruce had already grabbed the god forsaken first aid kit from Dick’s bathroom, and was rushing to treat Dick’s leg. Dick tried weakly to slap him away. It didn’t work.</p><p>”Then how did this happen?”</p><p>”I do—don’t nuh—know.” Dick squeezed his eyes shut. More fat tears escaped to roll down his cheeks.</p><p>“Chum, you’re not making any sense.”</p><p>”I don’t nuh—know what happened,” Dick managed to repeat, voice wet with emotion. “I hu—hurt myself.”</p><p>”I can tell that much,” Bruce replied, voice dry in his worry.</p><p>Dick, eyes still tightly closed against the world, shook his head. “You don’t ge—get it,” he said. He reached out one hand to grip Bruce’s wrist, deathly tight. “I...” </p><p>Bruce froze. “You... did this to yourself?” he whispered, appalled.</p><p>Ashamed beyond words, Dick nodded.</p><p>”<em>Why</em>?”</p><p>”I don’t know!” Dick exclaimed, voice catching. “I tol—told you, I don’t know!”</p><p>”Okay,” Bruce said, voice comforting. “Let me fix it.”</p><p>Dick sobbed in relief. That’s all he had ever wanted. Someone to fix it.</p><p>Bruce bandaged his cuts very, very carefully, wiped the blood off his hands and the tears off his cheeks. Then he gathered Dick against his chest and held him. “I don’t know what to do,” Bruce confessed gruffly.</p><p>”Neither do I,” Dick laughed mirthlessly. He shivered in Bruce’s arms. “It’s cold.”</p><p>”I’ll take you somewhere warm.”</p><p>In a haze, Bruce led Dick down the hallways and stairs to the living room, where the flames roared in the fireplace, crackling hotly. There were blankets on the back of the couch, and with more care than Dick had thought possible, Bruce arranged them around Dick on the couch so that he was warm and secure. He sat beside him, and pulled him in close. Dick buried his face into his dad’s chest, so that he was sheltered from the world.</p><p>They breathed together, and Bruce stroked Dick’s hair gently like he hadn’t done in years.</p><p>As if on cue, voiced sounded from the doorway. Tim and Damian.</p><p>”Father! What is wrong with Grayson? We heard—“</p><p>”Is he okay?” Tim broke in. “What happened?”</p><p>Dick did not leave the safety of his father’s chest to answer his brothers’ questions. He couldn’t face them yet. So Bruce answered for him. “He’ll be okay. He hasn’t said what happened yet. But everything’s okay.”</p><p>Dick heard two twin exhales of relief, and then the warm weight of his littlest brother settling in beside him. Damian wrapped his arms comfortingly around Dick. “I will murder anyone who hurt him,” Damian promised in a growl.</p><p>Neither Dick nor Bruce commented on the irony of his statement. </p><p>“And I’ll help,” Tim agreed grimly, settling in on the couch.</p><p>Dick breathed in and out into Bruce’s chest. Surrounded by his family, he let himself just be. </p><p>Maybe they could help him fix this. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you are struggling with the same issues as Dick (or even different ones) feel free to leave a comment. I promise to respond &lt;3 I care about every single one of you readers, I am here to talk to you and most importantly, listen. These issues are very close to my heart and I want you all to feel safe and okay &lt;33</p><p>Based on writing style and everything some of you might be able to guess who I am, if you've read any of the stories I've published un-anonymously. But I wanted this to be anonymous so that people who know me irl can't see that I've posted this. I get that its a super hard issue to talk about. And I want you all to know that I'm here for you, to the highest capacity that I can be through ao3. </p><p>That said, I appreciate every single comment and kudos and bookmark! Thank you so much for writing! Please have a wonderful, wonderful day! With sunshine and rainbows or something!</p><p>Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated &lt;3</p><p>Thanks again!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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